006.
Colourless Grief
There are more people in the house than there has been in some time. They said it might not be safe to do this, and Harry told them that he didn't care. The dead deserve more than silence. The emotions ran high and from room to room were omnipotent; things like this are never easy (they were never meant to be). The sounds of voices were far more hushed than normal and the sounds of crying seemed everywhere and nowhere are once.
"I hate funerals," Harry said quietly, sitting perfectly still all in black (there was so much black). Hermione remained silent, slipping her hand into Harry's. Ron looked around the room at everyone and then back at his lap. Neither of them really knew what to say to him; Harry knew how he felt (he could still see Sirius falling), but there were no words to make anyone feel better. When someone you love is gone, all the words in the world aren't enough.
"I hate the colour black," Hermione said in an almost whisper, looking at everyone around her.
"Black isn't a colour," Ron said softly. He looked up at the two of them. "It's the absence of colour." It's the only thing he has said the entire night. He looked again at the people in his house. "The absence of something doesn't make it hurt any less, either, once it's truly gone."
"Ron…" Hermione whispered, tears in her eyes. She and Harry both felt so helpless.
"He was still my brother," he said softly. The tears are easily visible in his eyes now. "Why did he have to be so stupid? Why couldn't he just… swallow his pride and come home?" He was quiet for a moment, looking down at his hands, tears dripping onto his skin. "He would have been safe," he whispered. "He would still be alive…"
"I'm so sorry," Harry said, so quietly and Ron looked up. "I know you said you don't blame me - that all of you said you don't blame me - but I…" Harry's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "I feel like… if they weren't after me… They did this to Percy to try and get you out in the open, so I would be out in the open… I… Ron, I'm so sorry." Hermione squeezed his hand, trying to blink back her own tears, seeing the guilt in Harry's eyes as tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Promise me something, Harry?" Ron asked softly.
"Anything."
"Don't let him win," he said so heartbreakingly. "Please, Harry… don't let him win."
"Ron -"
"Promise me that when it's time, you'll fight like hell, Harry. Promise me that."
"I promise," he replied in a choked whisper. Ron nodded, barely, and looked at Hermione. The look in his eyes was ripping her apart inside; he didn't deserve this. She had come to think of him as not only her best friend, but that big brother she never had, and seeing him hurting this way was killing her.
"Hermione… in all those books you read… isn't there anything about how to make this…" he touched his chest subconsciously, swallowed hard, and looked at her once more with tears in his eyes. "…this hurt go away?" he whispered hoarsely. Her eyes burned with tears as she shook her head slightly.
"No," she whispered. He said nothing. She said, I'm sorry.
The two of them stood watching Mrs. Weasley and Ginny, watching as all of the Weasley boys and Mr. Weasley held her up, and George comforted Ginny. Mrs. Weasley's legs just wouldn't seem to work properly, and her eyes were red from crying. Harry hated this - he hated the grief and the mourning, he hated the Death. Hermione took his hand again and tugged gently. "Let's go upstairs; we should give them some time alone," she said quietly, leading him up the staircase.
He sits on the bed and watches her pull the hair back and something made him stop her. "Leave it down," he said softly. She didn't protest and moved to pull her shirt over her head instead. He stood up and stayed her hands. "Let me?" he whispered. Her eyes answer without words. He slipped his hands under the hem of her shirt, feeling the warm expanse of skin of her back, her stomach. She closed her eyes for a moment, just feeling. His hands were cool against her body. Gently, he pulled the black shirt over her head. She didn't protest when his hands were at the back of her black skirt, sliding down the zipper. The skirt slid easily down her legs, pooling at her feet in a puddle of black silk. He took her hands and she stepped out of the skirt around her feet. She took off the constricting black nylons. His fingers brushed her cheek and she turned her head into his touch. His fingers trailed down her neck, stopping at the hollow point of her throat, feeling the gentle rhythm of her heartbeat. So much death. He only wanted to feel life.
Her fingers slid each tiny button of his black shirt through its hole. She splayed her hands against his bare chest, she too, feeling his heartbeat. She slid her hands over his shoulders, pushing his shirt down his arms and dropping it on the floor. He stepped toward her, closer, sliding the straps of her bra down, watching it fall away from her body. He closed the small gap between them, his arms encircling her, her lips warm and soft against his. He could feel her breasts pressed against his body, feel the hard peaks of her nipples against his skin. He needed her. She needed him. They needed this.
The sheets were cool and crisp against her back, her body warmer from Harry's touch. His trousers, his boxers, her panties were all forgotten on the floor by the bed. Without words (because there's no need for words here tonight) she urged him on. She could feel him, hard, warm, pressed against her. There was no describable feeling when he was inside of her; she was suddenly full with him. His thighs rubbed against hers with each slow, deliberate thrust. She held on to him. She felt him. He tried to memorize the feeling of being inside of her. She drew him down to her, crushing their lips together - lips, tongues and teeth clashing. But this - this - was life. They were alive.
She arched up against him, feeling his body tense; she held her legs tight around him, feeling her muscles still contracting, her body still shuddering. His breath caught, and he was so deep in her… She relaxed, feeling pulse after pulse of warmth as he emptied himself in her. He was trembling. She held him.
"I won't lose you," he said in a choked whisper. "I won't go through what they're going through." He lifted himself, still trembling, to look down at her. She touched his face, feeling the warmth of his skin. "Promise me, Hermione," he whispered, so close to tears. She drew him down gently, pressing her lips to his, kissing him deeply, searchingly, promisingly. She wrapped her arms around him, loving the feel of his weight on her, feeling his arms sliding around her, under her. She closed her eyes listening to him breathing.
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